


Magefire

by TehLotteh



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: AU, Anders' Spicy Shimmy, Cats with earrings, Fluff and Angst, Inspired by Disney, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Probably some bad puns somewhere, There might be a happy ending I don't know yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-07 16:49:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4270671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TehLotteh/pseuds/TehLotteh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A view of Kirkwall and its conflict between Mages and Templars, inspired Disney's The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Meredith rules the city with an iron fist, and the Mages are struggling to remain one step ahead. When Cullen is transferred to the City of Chains he finds himself embroiled in the lives and struggles of his fellow Templars and the desire for Order, yet is unable to help being drawn in by the wild and free-spirited Apostate, Anders, and his ginger tabby.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, and thanks for dropping in to check this out! I hope it reads well as I tend to ramble incoherently a lot, but with any luck things work out half well.
> 
> I've attempted to make clear links to the film (such as Anders-Esmeralda, Cullen-Phoebus, etc), and the plot will certainly have a heavy impact on how things play out in this story, yet at the same time some liberties and changes will be made. If I've made any huge mistakes or contradictions please let me know and I'll get them amended ASAP (and I'll endeavour to get chapters written fairly regularly). Hope you enjoy!

Kirkwall.

It was, in all fairness, a great, stinking shithole. The people lived just as well off corruption as they did necessary nutrition, and for those in the higher ends of society, more so. There was no class hopping, no way to change who you were born as, and although the only way to go up through the social ranks was to marry, there were many, many ways to go down. Something those who had come to the City of Chains with the desire to flee the terror of their old life knew only too well.

It was not uncommon for the guards to find Mages sneaking in to the city with their Mage-blood children, a strain of people not tolerated anywhere in the Free Marches. It was a dangerous journey, fraught with the risks of disease, famine, death at the hands of beast or man, but for these people who had nothing the appeal of sanctuary was far too strong. The Chantry in Kirkwall, although not particularly supportive of the Mages, did not refuse them entry either, and within their walls no guard could touch them, under the protection of the Lady Andraste as they were.

This is the setting of this tale, and so it began almost a decade prior, where such a band of people fled in the heavy snow of harsh winter, tattered robes barely keeping the necessary warmth inside their fragile bodies. The streets of the city were deserted, the pavement clothed in a sheet of pure white, untouched save for the ragged footprints of the small troupe. A young man barely in the latter years of his teens led the front, his hood pulled far down his face as the large flecks that fell from the sky clung to the scrawny beard on his face. Four youths, the eldest no more than thirteen years old, took after him in shuffling, minuscule strides. None of them had the luxury the nourishment required for growing children of their age, nor the fat on their bodies to keep their cores warm. One kept stumbling, the boy at his side grabbing him to help him rebalance when he could before the biting air forced him to retreat back in the security of his cloak.

“Jowan, quickly!” called the voice of an elderly female, the sixth member of their group and the only other adult, scooping the stumbling boy up a little and pushing him forwards, head darting from side to side as she fervently searched for any threats. The tower of the Chantry was finally visible to them, their previous contact having been absent from their meeting place. They usually relied on a smuggler to secure safe passage to the Mage Underground for the children in their entourage, but something must have gone wrong, and it was too risky for them to hang about in the open like easy prey. They not only had fellow Magekind to watch over, but children, and neither adult was willing to risk any incident taking a young life before its time as so often happened to their people.

The band of Mages had fled from Ferelden, where the Templar Order had begun to cull those born with magic in their blood, no longer tolerating the anomalies who lived a threadbare existence in their lands. They were a punishment sent by Andraste Herself, a blight on the land, those responsible for all ills committed in Thedas. A great number of the Order believed that destroying all Mages would bring an era of peace for the 'innocents' and the 'normals', and many who lived in the general public hated the Mages just as much, believing the propaganda fed to them about their dark nature and intent. In the city of Kirkwall they were tolerated only for their parlour tricks – fortune telling, illusions, miracle cures. For those who had no hope of help anywhere else, such degradation was favourable.

The steps of the Chantry in sight, the blizzard far from letting up, their destination was so close that the relief was almost tangible. The man hurried to the door, banging on it loudly, and called out for those within to allow them Sanctuary. The woman huddled the children together, whispering promises of warmth and food, not a life without fear in the slightest but at least one without the fear of being murdered in the night. As the seconds dragged on into minutes, however, and still no answer was received, all felt the rise in tension. The boy called Jowan asked a quiet question of “Are we going to die here”, before being quickly silenced by the woman. The two girls in their group were close to tears, exhausted, starved, while the fourth child, a boy and the oldest of the group, remained steadfastly silent. He did not speak the language of the others, and although he did not understand what was going on, he still followed.

They knew nothing of what would pass from wrong to horrific until they felt the surprising warmth of blood on their faces, a bolt sticking through one of the girls' necks as she teetered for a moment, the shock and life draining on her face and spilling onto the floor, before her corpse dropped to the floor with a solid thump. Within minutes she would be a frozen pile under the snow, unknown to the city until the thaw began some time later, and even then she would be just another dead Mage girl to add to the list. It was unlikely that she would be given rites or a funeral, and instead her body would be tossed to the dogs, give them a taste for Mage flesh, or other starving street-rats would scrap over bits of meat to keep the imminent starvation at bay for just a day more.

For the group of refugees, however, there would be little time to mourn her loss.

The adults reacted immediately, knowing no sanctuary would come to them in time, and took the remaining three children roughly by the hands to try and drag them out of sight, another bolt rushing past their heads. A clatter of metal signalled the arrival of the guards, mounted on horseback, and it was all a blur of steeds snorting, hooves stamping, and metal scraping as swords were drawn. The older Mages made to cast spells in defense, but were very quickly subdued by the heavy weight of the Templars' power, nulling their connection to the Fade and resulting in a crushing seensation of helplessness. On a silent agreement, the two adults split the party, the girl and Jowan going with the woman, while the man took the silent boy with him, hoping that with their separation in different directions, the pursuit would be less effective.

As they ran, and calls were made from the guards to rally aid, candles were lit and nosy citizens poked their heads out of their windows, eager to see another display of a good hunt, caring not for the young lives involved in such entertainment. To the nobles of the city, the children may as well be fuzzy animals chased by warhounds for the spirit of the hunt, and not one would consider their own son or daughter, safely tucked in their plush beds, being forced to endure such a fate. The Mages ran as best they could through the snow, their energy spent and their minds fuzzy from the nulling sensation of the smite that sat heavy as a blanket over them, making each movement feel as if they were dragging a dead weight behind them. The male heard a blood curdling scream from the other girl, some streets to their right, and felt the boy whose hand he was dragging flinch at the sound. He knew that the child was flagging, and would soon be unable to run for much longer, yet he also knew that there was no way he could carry him and still keep a distance from the ever encroaching guard.

An empty barrel was a sign from Andraste Herself in his mind as he rounded the corner, and without a second's hesitation, he scooped the boy up and dropped him in it, stuffing the boy's cloak over his head to hide the mop of blond hair and to provide some warmth, and with a silent prayer to whoever was listening for the boy to have the sense not to move, he ran in the opposite direction, eager to draw attention away from him and keep the child hidden as long as possible. His own chances of survival were looking pretty slim, but young life had to be protected at all cost, and he could only hope that one of their own would find him before a guard did. The Maker had made this a horrid day indeed, and if any of them survived, it would be a miracle in its own right.

Inside the barrel the boy remained frozen, more with fear than cold although the mixture proved potent, and could do nothing but listen to the sounds of chaos outside. It dragged on for a long time, and eventually silence fell throughout the city. He didn't move, not knowing where to go, or what to do, and decided that freezing to death would be far more preferable to a knife through his chest. His eyes were heavy, oh so heavy, and he felt his breathing grow shallower as he drifted, mind slipping into unconsciousness.

He was dragged unwillingly out of this state of nothingness by firm hands at his shoulders, prized painfully out of the barrel as the man pulled him close, wrapping his cloak tightly around them, and he felt the familiar warmth of magic between their skin, thawing him through until he could uncurl his fingers once more. He slowly raised honey-coloured eyes, seeing a relieved yet weak smile of the male Mage from their group, but he knew the sadness in the other man's blue eyes, knew that none of their comrades had made it. He was gently dragged into an alley and into an alcove, the man settling down with the younger boy wrapped between his legs with his back pressed to his chest, offering as much of his body heat as he could, and held his face close to the boy's so that their cheeks were pressed together, shivering in unison.

“Anders,” Karl whispered, balling magic in his hand and holding it close to the blond's chest. He knew that the youth did not understand his words, but if nothing else, the ferocity and determination behind them should get his meaning across. He could feel his voice crackling with exhaustion, grief and pain, but he swore on his dead mother's grave that he would not lose another. “I promise, nothing will happen to you, not while I'm around. This city will not destroy us, and nor shall we bend. We shall make sure that no more lives are lost unnecessarily. We are the Maker's children, and He will recognise us.”


	2. The bells, the bells..

_Ten years later._

 

Maker's breath, but Kirkwall was a shithole.

Cullen had been in the famed City of Chains for all of twenty minutes and already he had been at the mercy of no fewer than seven street rats who, thankfully, did not have the cutpurse talent down to an art, not to mention the number of beggars with disease and starvation that tried to cling to his clothes as he passed, some with bandages promising ugly pus and blood beneath, covering eyes, stomachs, amputated limbs.. It just didn't bear thinking about, and he didn't want to risk losing what little lunch he had retained after the horrific boat journey by indulging in his curiosity with far from pleasant images.

The whole city smelt like a cesspit, as far as he was concerned, which said a lot coming from a Fereldan. The southern country was famed for its 'wet dog' smell, the stench of farm-life and mud and diseased bodies. And, well, dog. Not that Cullen had owned a dog. He had siblings. He doubted his family could have dealt with a dog. That would have just been a handful.

Focus, Cullen. Kirkwall.

He had been transferred to the City to help with the 'Mage problem'. It was something that was affecting most of Thedas, which was no secret, but the infestation in Kirkwall had reached new heights, and Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard was becoming very well-known within the order for her no-nonsense attitude towards the Mages who had made her city their home. Some thought her a little extreme in her methods (and Cullen had to admit, decimating their population by burning down one of their hovels _did_ seem a little inhumane), but nobody could deny that she was getting results. Under her, the city had seen a considerable decrease in the number of apostates, but in the last year or so, they were returning like an unwelcome parasite, feeding on the innocent and naive, tricking them with their corrupt, magical ways, milking the city and kind-hearted souls of every last coin and tainting the populace with sin.

Her words, not his.

He had watched over a handful of Mages back in Ferelden, in a place known as Kinloch. It wasn't a prison, no matter what many said, but a place of refuge. These homeless, uh, _anomalies_ of nature were welcomed into the tall tower to work and live, to earn coin, to teach, to learn, to be fed and kept safe. The Templar Order in Kinloch merely watched to make sure that they were doing no harm to either themselves or others, and things were working out fairly peacefully. It had only been set up very recently, and he had been one of the first young recruits to work in such an institution, known as a Circle. Not the first Circle in Thedas, but at least the first in the southern areas. Order had been established, along with a peaceful balance, and he had performed such good work that his superiors had referred him to the Commanders in other cities that were linked to their Order. As it was, Knight-Commander Meredith had picked him up, and made the decision for him to come and work for her.

He had not been told much about what to expect in his new position (Knight-Captain, _Knight-Captain –_ the title still sounded too fresh even to his own ears), except that a Circle had been established within Kirkwall, and having had previous experience with one, his aid 'would be most invaluable'. From what he had heard, there hadn't been much success. None of the Mages in Kirkwall wanted to be housed inside a building and guarded, not that it was any safer for them outside. In the Circle they could be kept from thieves and disease, have access to food and healers. A warm bed, maybe a pet or two to roam the building, a place for children to be given the education they needed – why did they not see that this was a promising enterprise?

A sudden yowl drew him out of his thoughts with a jolt, jumping slightly in alarm and stepping backwards. A ginger tabby hissed at himfrom the ground just before him, back arched and fur on end, with its little ears pinned back and teeth bared at him. It was a tiny thing, and Cullen had a horrible feeling he'd just trodden on the poor thing. Not that he could be blamed; it was, after all, about the size of his foot. If he paid attention to avoiding every little thing that was strewn about the streets of Kirkwall he would still be stood at the docks.

"Maker, I'm sorry kitty!" He frowned, crouching down and offering his hand to the cat to sniff by means of an apology, but the gesture was returned with another hiss as a clawed paw swatted at him, drawing slivers of blood along the back of his hand. He sighed inwardly, feeling defeated. He'd heard the Free Marchers of the city were hostile towards Fereldens. It seemed the wildlife was no different. A glint in the sun caught his eye and he frowned once more, tilting his head to get a view of the little hoop earring sat in the cat's ear. Not a wild street cat, then. Not that he'd heard of cats with earrings before. Still, these Free Marchers, they were probably up for anything.

Man and cat looked up at the sound of jingling and soon the cat purred happily, bounding over with springy steps to a pair of slender legs, soon rubbing up happily against them and nuzzling the green trousers that covered them. The Captain straightened, standing up properly, and met the gaze of another man, amber eyes mildly suspicious. No doubt he thought that Cullen was harming his cat.. Assuming that was his cat. Hearing the stories of the street urchins in this city, Cullen really wouldn't be surprised if the man was just protective over his next dinner. That was a Kirkwall delicacy he really didn't want to try..

"You're new here," the stranger said, tilting his head to the side curiously. Cullen took a moment to study him, taking in sharp cheekbones and jaw, a proud nose giving the man an appearance that strangely reminded him of the drawings of Halla that he had seen. Elegant, pointed, and somewhat appealing. His skin was unblemished aside from the spattering of stubble on his jaw, though the hairs seemed a darker shade than the blonde hair scraped back behind his head and tied with a ribbon. Not that Cullen was one to judge – a fellow blonde knew the struggles of making facial hair look good.

"Is it that obvious?" He smiled weakly, and didn't know what to make of the smirk on the other man's face.

"Fereldan, go figure. No offense, but you look a bit green. Oh, not just as in you're new to the city – you just got off the boat, didn't you? No need to be ashamed, we've all been there."

"You mean you're-"

"Imported, yes," he said, lazily flicking some dust from his clothing. It was colourful and gaudy, a low-cut shirt of some sort that revealed a toned chest and a smattering of golden hair, in white with golden embroidery in patterns he didn't recognise the origin of. At his waist lay a golden sash, this one detailed in a dark green to match the trousers, and his feet were covered in black and gold boots that looked like they had seen better days.

Cullen bit his lip a moment, feeling awkward at this social interaction. The stranger seemed confident enough, but there was something in the atmosphere that made Cullen feel.. Inept. Odd. Of course, his complete lack of finesse in social interactions could be the problem, but he had a feeling that there was something more to this. He fumbled a moment, briefly wiping the sweat off his palm on his jacket in what he hoped was a nondescript gesture, and offered his hand to the other in greeting. "Sorry, yes, I'm Cullen. Cullen Rutherford."

"Anders," the man took the proferred and shook it, and Maker his grip was firm. That kind of confidence was something Cullen really needed. If only they sold it in bottles..

"Really? That's a long journey, isn't it? You don't sound Anders, not that I know what the accent is, but you sound Fereldan to me, maybe with a bit of something else.. You are Fereldan, right?" Silence. He couldn't read anything from the other's expression, and Cullen felt his own face fall. One day, Cullen, social interactions won't be such an incomprehensible concept. "Sorry, uh.. What is your name..?" Baby steps, Cullen, he reminded himself. Baby steps.

"Anders." This time the man's lip twitched, as if fighting back a smile.

"Sorry, not Fereldan, I hope I didn't insult you-"

"That's my name," Anders spoke, his voice breaking a little at the suppressed chuckle. Cullen bet that he got a right laugh out of that.. He doubted he was the only person to make that mistake. Or at least, he hoped that he wasn't. He wasn't sure that he could endure that embarrassment.

"I, uh, sorry."

The cat at their feet meowed loudly, as if protesting at being ignored for so long, and Anders immediately cooed, crouching down and scooping it up into his arms. Cullen belatedly realised that the man wore an earring just the same, both in their left ears. Must be a tradition from the Anderfels or something. The man's arms were also covered in gold bangles, and a matching chain round his neck bore a ring similar to those that adorned his fingers. That was a lot of jewellery, and not many men wore such back in Ferelden, at least not unless they were nobility. Judging by ths man's thin frame and.. Almost street-wise demeanour, Cullen had a feeling that he wasn't a nobleman.

Not to mention that they were stood in Lowtown. From what he'd been told by other travellers on the ship, no man of standing would be seen dead in Lowtown.

"Sorry, kitty, did I ignore you? Do you want some food?" He spoke to the cat in a quiet, melodic voice, as if coddling a child, and Cullen watched as the cat purred again, nuzzling against Anders' fingers. It was at this point curled up comfortably in his arms, lounging like a lady of leisure on its back, tail swishing in a content manner.

"This is your cat?" Cullen asked, watching oddly. Well done, state the obvious. At least it wasn't another awkward silence.

"He is, aren't you Ser Pounce-a-Lot? Yes you are," he cooed once more, tickling the tabby's nose, and was rewarded by a little pink tongue coming out to lick the tip of his finger.

"Ser Pounce-a-Lot? You called him Ser Pounce-a-Lot?" This time it was Cullen's attempt to hide his humour at a situation. He had a feeling that Anders had a much better poker face.

The man in question pouted a little indignantly at that, and pushed his chin up in pride. "He's a noble knight, and he should be recognised as such. He fought off a whole pack of rats while defending his food!"

Cullen snorted slightly in response to that, though was welcomed to see that Anders smiled slightly in turn, seeming to relax. His eyes widened after a moment, leaning forward to lightly brush where Ser Pounce-a-Lot had scratched him. In all honesty, he had forgotten that the mark was even there, but it must have caught Anders' eye.

"Did you do this, you monstrous little terror? That's rude!"

The monstrous little terror meowed at that.

Cullen smiled slightly again, though he could hear the sound of bells in the distance, and it served as a reminder that he really did need to get moving. There was little sense in being late to meet his new superior, and Maker knew he was going to get lost trying to find her. The whole city was like a maze to him. Actually.. "Anders, was it? A question. Would you be able to direct me to where I might find Knight-Commander Stannard? I am supposed to be meeting with her this afternoon, but I have no idea where to go."

The response was immediate, and not at all what Cullen had been expecting. It wasn't much, but it left him re-evaluating his internal comment that Anders would be a better player at Wicked Grace than he. The man's face was too expressive. He noticed the tightening around his eyes, a similar shade to his cat's, and a taughtening of the skin by his lips, giving him a tight lipped grimace. "I don't know where you may find her, Serrah, but I'm sure the guards at the entrance to Hightown may be able to assist you. End of this street, turn right, you'll see the stairs."

Not a fan of the Knight-Commander then? "Thank you, Ser, I appreciate the help."

He received a quiet grunt at that, and Cullen sighed, glancing up in the direction Anders gave him. He turned back round to wish him farewell, but in the split second that he had been facing the other way, the man had gone. Not a sound, not even the jingle of his bangles. He turned on the spot, searching for him, but it was if he had vanished into thin air. He had been certainly rather amicable for most of that, until the mention of the Knight-Commander. Why was that? He scratched absently at the back of his hand, and froze.

There was no mark. No scratch. The itching was dried blood irritating his skin, but under that, nothing. No cause for the blood. It was as if the cat had never scratched him at all. Suddenly it all made sense. Who else would hold disdain for the fearless leader of the Templar Order but a Mage?


End file.
